


A Little Less Conversation

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Chicago Med
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s01e12 Guilty, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Power Play, Rough Sex, consensual drunk sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-01 05:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6503239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor and Will seem to get on a hell of a lot better when they're not talking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Less Conversation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [csichick_2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csichick_2/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [A Little Less Conversation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7571251) by [lorraina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorraina/pseuds/lorraina)



> I hope this is what you were looking for, csichick_2! I couldn't access your letter but I used your prompts / tags from the sign-up as guidelines, which came in pretty handy since they seemed to be almost _made for_ an episode tag to 1x12.
> 
> Thanks to bm-shipper without whom this story wouldn't have happened, and to my wonderful beta glitterburn! ♥

 

There's something to be said for silence. Will doesn't feel like talking. Not to Herrmann at the bar, not to Connor next to him, not to Natalie who'd sent him a text asking if he was okay. He's not okay, all the anger and the guilt and the frustration balling up in the pit of his stomach into a tight curl of bitterness. The gentle burn of the scotch helps, but it's not enough. He's not eighteen anymore, getting blind drunk to make a bad day go away – it needs more than that, nowadays, to stop the buzzing in his head, to drown out the noise with something a little more physical.

It's not something he'd usually go to Connor Rhodes for, except that he still feels the phantom weight of the other man's body slamming him against the elevator wall, can sense the bruises forming underneath his shirt, and he _wants_. 

He waves Herrmann over for a refill and swallows a mouthful, teetering on the edge between asking for it and letting it go, undecided until the moment the words leave his mouth.

"I liked it." It's the first thing he's said since they left the hospital to grab a drink at Molly's.

Out of the corner of his eye, he registers Connor turning his head towards him, brows drawn together in confusion. He continues staring into his glass, watching the golden swirl of liquid. Takes another sip before he clarifies, "In the elevator. When you held me down."

He bites at the words like a mouthful of a tough, chewy meat that's hard to swallow. He could say more. He could _ask._ But that's not going to happen, not with someone like Connor who he doesn't particularly like or trust. It's fucked up that instead of stopping him, that just makes him harder. Dr. Charles would have a field day with him. Not that he's ever going to find out, not if it's up to Will.

Connor keeps watching him, fingers restlessly twirling the glass in his hands. The expression on his face gives nothing away and he doesn't offer any response.

Will thinks about laughing it off. _Sorry, man. Weird day. I guess I had too much to drink._ Thinks about getting up and leaving without a word. Thinks about punching Connor in the face and seeing where that gets them.

Before he can come to a decision, Connor puts his glass down a little too firmly, the noise like a punctuation mark. 

"Come on. Let's go," he says, pushing up from his chair, and even though the words are as noncommittal as what Will offered, the firm tone takes them from casual suggestion to unyielding order.

It's not what Will expected. Eyes snapping up, he searches Connor's face until the other man raises a challenging eyebrow, and any ideas Will had entertained about walking away from this evaporate. He throws a couple of bills at the bar to cover their drinks and follows Connor out.

*

They're barely through the front door of Connor's apartment when Will finds himself pushed face-first against the wall, arm twisted behind his back in approximately the same position he was in a couple of hours ago, Connor holding him in place with his whole body, breath warm at Will's neck.

He makes a show of struggling – not seriously, just enough to test Connor's hold, excitement warm in his belly when Connor responds by pushing Will's arm a bit higher, a brief flash of pain running from his shoulder through his upper arm. When Connor leans in closer, Will feels the hard, insistent weight of his cock against his backside. He's relieved that Connor is clearly every bit as into this as he is, even if it doesn't quite negate the embarrassment of getting off on a bit of power play. Releasing a shaky breath, he lets his forehead drop against the wall, relaxing into the hold.

"That what you want?" Connor asks, voice strained. 

His grip on Will's wrist loosens a fraction, like he's ready to let go at the first hint Will gives him. This is probably the kind of thing they should have talked about before. They didn't. They spent the brisk walk to Connor's block in silence, neither of them mentioning Will's admission at Molly's or the implications of Connor's offer. Will still doesn't particularly feel like talking, but he has a feeling Connor's going to be stubborn and this won't be going anywhere unless Will gives verbal affirmation. If Will were in a more generous mood, he'd assume this was about safety and consent, but he's not, and it wouldn't surprise him if Connor's just being a dick to rub in the humiliation, making Will _say it_ when it should be plain obvious what he's here for.

He doesn't bother turning his head, muttering his reply into the wall and trusting that Connor will hear it. "I just want to not have to think for a while, okay? So if you can't give me that without sitting down to have a lengthy chat about it, let's just call it off right now." 

The pressure at his wrist is back, firmer than before, the grip edging close to punishing. "Sorry for trying to give you an out, asshole."

"If I want an out, you'll know it." He pushes back against Connor's groin, letting himself feel the other man's erection through too many layers of clothing and imagining it inside of him, filling him up. The low-level rush of desire he's been riding since Connor manhandled him in the elevator spikes. He wants it so badly that he can taste in on his tongue, and patience was never his strongest suit. 

"Come on, man." He strains against the hold, just to get this show on the road.

There's a sharp pain at the side of his neck as Connor bites down just above his collar, not quite hard enough to break the skin but enough to leave a bruise Will is going to have a hard time hiding tomorrow. "Did no one ever teach you that patience is a virtue, Halstead?" 

Whatever snarky come-back Will has on his tongue dies when Connor reaches around him to undo Will's pants. Considering that he only has one hand free, the other still trapping Will's wrist behind his back, he makes quick enough work of the belt buckle, but it's still not as fast as Will would have liked, eager to finally feel warm skin against skin.

At the first touch of Connor's fingers closing around his straining erection, still trapped inside his briefs, he shudders, feeling impossibly turned on and impossibly frustrated at once. The hand is cold, but warming up quickly as Connor lazily jerks him off, not fast or firm enough to be much more than teasing.

Will bites his lips to stop himself from begging for more, trapping the _please_ already half-formed in his mouth with clenched teeth. Even though it remains unspoken, his body is telegraphing it all too clearly. He's rocking into Connor's long, slender surgeon's fingers as much as his position allows, which is not nearly enough. A trickle of sweat runs down the side of his face, from his hairline down his cheek.

All of a sudden, the hand is gone. If Will didn't feel Connor fumbling with the buttons of his own jeans and hear the unmistakable sound of a zipper and the rustle of denim, he'd protest, but anything that gets them closer to naked is a good thing. Still, it takes too long until both their pants and underwear are out of the way, and Will is glad that Connor doesn't seem inclined to bother with their shirts for now. He lets go of Will's wrist to pull him backwards by the hips, and the pinprick feeling when Will moves his arm in front to steady himself against the wall is almost more painful than the cruel stretch was. 

It doesn't matter, because finally – finally – he can feel the rough drag of Connor's cock against his ass, no more layers between them as the slick, blunt head slides along his crack with intent – a delicious, torturous tease that makes Will arch his back and brace himself more firmly.

Connor sounds breathless when he speaks, leaning in so close that his lips brush the shell of Will's ear and the warm, smokey smell of scotch on his breath hits Will's nose. "One day I'm gonna spread you out on the bed, tie you down with a bunch of those expensive ties you hate so much and fuck you with my fingers until you're a begging, broken mess," he promises, voice low and dangerous, and Will can't quite hold back a quiet whimper, half protest, half anticipation. "I'll show you how good it feels to be patient. Not today, though, don't worry."

There's a part of Will that wants that – wants to be laid out and pinned down, those long, nimble fingers driving inside him over and over again until he can't breathe anymore, until his whole world is narrowed into a kaleidoscope of want and need – but at the same time he balks at the idea of Connor planning ahead. He'd thought of tonight as a one-off, just a convenient distraction from his epic fuck-up with Jennifer Baker and the consequences; he hadn't considered the option of it becoming more than that.

He's distracted by Connor's fingers again, two of them pushing into him, slick with some kind of lotion Connor must have on hand unless he's in the habit of carrying lube around, opening him up mercifully fast and efficiently.

Will's hands can't find leverage on the smooth wall, sweaty palms slipping. This time, he can't stop himself. " _Please_ ," he asks – begs, really, hating the needy, gravelly sound of his voice. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the wall again, bracketed by his arms, and when Connor pulls his fingers away, a small whine escapes his throat.

"Shhh, I've got you," Connor mutters against his neck, soft and steady and reassuring, and then there's the blunt pressure of his cock against Will's hole, drowning out everything else.

That's always been the part he loves most: the initial breach, the pain-pleasure of being stretched open wide, the burn when it slides inside, the sensation of being filled. There's nothing like it, nothing that can calm the raging noise in Will's head quite so well. He breathes through it and gives himself over to the sensation, dancing on the razor-edge of discomfort and bliss.

Connor's first few thrusts are slow, almost agonizingly so, making Will feel every inch of him, and Will hears himself begging through a wall of noise, his ears ringing as if after an explosion. He bites his lips hard to stop the flow of words, but it's not enough to hold back the broken sounds he's making when Connor finally picks up speed, pulling out almost completely and driving into him again and again, angling up so he's hitting Will's prostate every time.

Will's already close to coming when Connor's fingers find his cock again, and he almost sobs in relief when he feels his orgasm building – only to have it ripped away from him, Connor's hand tightening and squeezing hard enough to make sure he stays on the edge without tipping over. 

Turns out Connor is too damn good at this, and it's fucking unfair that it's just another thing the golden boy excels in. He keeps Will's climax just out of reach as his rhythm becomes unsteady and erratic. Will's lips are bitten bloody and his fists are clenched so tightly that his knuckles ache and his eyes are wet. The words that spill from his lips barely make sense, a mixture of begging and cursing, angry and desperate and mindless with need.

Finally, Connor's coming, a cry of relief muffled with his face buried in Will's shoulder. His hand starts moving again, stroking up and down the sore, aching length of Will's cock until Will's orgasm hits him like a punch to the solar plexus, painful in its intensity. 

The corners of his vision become soft and fuzzy and a tidal wave of post-coital drowsiness washing over him. He's hanging on to consciousness by a thread, barely aware of being pushed away from the wall and manhandled into a bed.

"Thanks, man. Just gonna lie down for a sec before I get cleaned up and dressed, 'kay?" he mumbles into the pillow.

He hears Connor's soft, annoying laughter over him. "Sure. Whatever you say."

*

The smell of coffee wakes him, sunlight filtering into the window, and it takes him a moment too long to get his bearings, to remember where he is and why, and by the time he does, Connor's already appeared in the doorway, shirtless and with shower-tousled hair.

"You're up. Good. Your shift starts in sixty, unless I'm mistaken."

A quick glance at Will's watch confirms Connor's assumption, but that doesn't stop him from throwing in a little jibe. "You really can't wait to kick me out, can you?" 

He's not hurt, exactly, but it figures that Connor's promises for a repeat performance won't sustain in the harsh light of day. Rolling out of bed, he grabs his clothes from where they're carefully folded on a chair, starting to put them on.

Connor watches him with unreadable eyes. "Actually, I was going to offer you breakfast and a ride to work, but if you're gonna be an ass about it, you can always take a cab." His raised eyebrow holds as much challenge as it did last night at Molly's, and Will feels the fight go out of him. Going head-to-head with Connor is exhausting because he's downright impossible to predict. Whenever you think he's going to make a left turn, he takes a sharp right.

Pinching the bridge of his nose to fend off a headache, Will closes his eyes and shakes his head. Coffee sounds good, and so does not having to make his way to the hospital alone. "Sorry." He grudgingly offers a self-deprecating smile. "We really fail at the whole communication thing, don't we?"

The corners of Connor's mouth twitch. "I think we did alright last night."

"You mean when we weren't talking?" He snorts, turning away from Connor as he buttons up his shirt and fastens his pants. "Yeah, that's what I mean. We seem to be getting along a whole lot better when no words are involved." He brushes past Connor through the doorway when the other man reaches out and fists his hand in the front of his shirt, rumpling the fabric. 

"Hey, what —"

Connor cuts his protest off. "Works for me," he says, pulling Will in and fitting their lips together in a first kiss that's both oddly timed and strangely sweet, nothing that Will expected from Connor and certainly not after last night. It takes a moment to get used to it, but by the time Connor's hands move up to slide through Will's mop of bed hair and he deepens the kiss, tongues tangling and a hint of teeth grazing his lip, Will decides that perhaps he doesn't mind being shut up like this after all.

End.


End file.
